


A Soul As Sweet As Blood Red Jam

by vanishing_time



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF, Queen (Band)
Genre: Adoption, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood, Deazzello, Developing Relationship, M/M, Murder, Revenge, Suicide, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24632707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishing_time/pseuds/vanishing_time
Summary: As the head of an Italian mafia, John never mixes business deals with family values unless he's forced to - and except when he finds the baby of a rival syndicate.
Relationships: John Deacon/Joe Mazzello
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	A Soul As Sweet As Blood Red Jam

**Author's Note:**

> I was experimenting with a slightly different writing style this time, please let me know what you think.
> 
> Partially inspired by 'Off to the Races' by Lana del Rey.
> 
> Many thanks to DiDaydreamer for the brainstorming! <3

John is thirty years old when he finds his parents frozen in their own blood, almost looking peaceful lying on the floor. It’s not the first loss in his life, nor the last, but he’s never seen anything like this. He knows it’s not a personal issue – it’s only business, as his father used to say. How ironic. In the moment of dissociation John can't help but wonder about the almost artistic nature of the whole scene: the splatter of the blood on the walls, the carefulness that the roses are arranged with in the hands of the corpses – almost like a signature, and he doesn't know yet that all of this horrid art will come back to him for decades in the form of nightmares. He’s the heir of the mob, and he’s become the leader just now – not the most uplifting inauguration, but this is a message for him that there will be no fooling and playing around this time. But it’s more than a revelation. It’s a shameless demonstration of the power that can turn business dynamics upside down with two shots; this is war, and in war, all is fair. John’s throat opens and he lets out a broken wail.

The metallic smoothness, the shape, the warmth, the smell, the sound, they’re all familiar to his senses. He was born into this business and raised into it, had a gun in his hand ever since he can remember, though he doesn't like to use it. It always felt dirty, and his father knew this, maybe that was the reason he told John to only use it in an emergency. There were some rules his father had taught him – for example, he taught him about the sanctity of life. “All life is sacred,” his father said, “and if you take one for food, you have to honour it.” John is six years old when he can already shoot at foxes and deer and even rabbits like a pro. Like his father. All life is sacred unless there's a business involved. This is business, John thinks, his gun is the extension of his arm, he was born with a gun in his hand, and the bullets dance a familiar, catatonic danse macabre. All is fair in war, he thinks as he looks down at the bodies on the bed, marveling at the prettiness of the both of them, the man's pert moustache, the golden blonde hair of the woman. Dancers. They have probably never even seen a gun in their lives. They were merely born and married into the wrong family, no matter how hard they tried to escape, and family determines everything. The formula is simple: you kill my loved ones, I kill yours too. It's only business, but this time it’s extremely personal. His father should have known better – he should have known better not to get soft. Softness will destroy you in this business, John thinks as he wipes his eyes.

John thought it all through and planned thoroughly, but apparently, he has forgotten about one thing. The baby doesn't cry when he finds it, it’s sleeping soundly, only opening its huge, green, doll-like eyes under the tender fluffs of ginger hair when John steps to the crib. Such smart eyes, and the baby stares at him, and John wonders how much it understands or senses. He leans down, gently taking the baby in his arms, and when the baby sees he’s not its father or mother, it starts crying with confused, angry yelps. Such powerful lungs, John marvels, and he shushes the baby, gently holding it against his chest, patting its back. He remembers how to hold them, he remembers the touch and smell of his children, now grown-ups, he remembers his wife’s smile when she handed him their youngest. He squeezes his eyes shut and suddenly he’s in the past, his wife’s blonde hair blowing in the wind on the terrace, a little baby girl in her arms as she proudly shows her to him. She’s grown so much, their little princess. The vision fades into a memory, and John rocks the baby, softly caressing its hair, cooing to it until the cries decrease and the baby calms down in his arms. Spikey, his right-hand man yells his head off that evening, maybe rightfully so, but he couldn't care less. All lives are sacred, and some lives are above business. 

He’s watching the boy grow at such an incredible rate that makes him wonder about his own mortality. The first words, the first steps, the little tantrums as he’s testing the boundaries, the way his brain develops day by day. He’s learned to talk unusually soon, as if he was frustrated with not being able to communicate clearly. John never could get bored with watching his kids grow, but it was a long time ago and he’s almost forgotten how it feels like – but this one here, this fiery little redhead, so different from his own children, this little devil makes him relive those times. He’s the complete opposite of John – full of life as if he was constantly amazed by this big, exciting world, continuously talking, making up stories and scenarios in his head and acting them out, always looking for reassurance and feedback, grinning when John or his men (his  _ family), _ or his favourite nanny applaud him. Little actor. John wonders if he’s ever been this energetic, this high on life. The boy – John named him Joseph after his childhood best friend, the person he once thought was always going to be the most important one in his life – smiles at everyone and bows after his little show, but his eyes twinkle the most when he looks at John, grinning at him with a gap of two missing baby teeth on the front.

He never could have imagined that Joe would like to play with guns – he seems much more interested in acting and people and fun. He never played with toy guns, never mimicked explosions or hot pursuits, never liked toy soldiers. But Joe, like other children, mostly learns by mimicking their parents. He’s about five when he asks John to teach him how to shoot. “Hold it tighter. Never point it at others or yourself, even if it’s not loaded,” John says, his hand on Joe’s around the toy gun, and Joe furrows his brow, concentrating hard on the target. He misses at first, of course, but this is John’s area of expertise, and he’s ready to teach the boy. He will probably get bored with it anyway soon. He explains and shows Joe what he needs to know at his level, and it wouldn't hurt for him either to practice every now and then, even though the business goes smoothly nowadays. Joe doesn't give up, he’s not the type to give up, and he cheers when the plastic bullet hits the can on the garden wall. Looking at his glowing face, John wonders how much of ourselves is actually written in our stars, and how a big part of our personality is shaped by the people who surround us. “Let’s practice some more, Daddy,” Joe asks, never tired, and John ruffles his hair. He’ll give him a live cartridge when he’s older.

Years go by, and John is fascinated by the way Joe’s limbs are lengthening, how his shoulders are widening, how deep his voice can occasionally become as it mutates. He doesn't remember ever observing his own children in such details, and he feels a pang of guilt. Not that he didn't care about his children, no. He loves them dearly, but… it’s better like this. He chose to protect them at the price of never seeing them again. He doesn’t know anything about them except that they are fine, not even the continent where they live… But Joe is here. Joe likes to show off how strong he is, beating Spikey in a wrestling match, making smart-ass comments at his nanny who he doesn't really need anymore but who he insists to keep around. John used to wonder whether Joe will feel like an outsider among the quiet (and deadly) family of people, whether he’ll feel like he doesn't belong, or question his roots. But his worry was unfounded. Joe is loved by everyone and he makes everyone cheerful, and he’s sunbathing on the tanning bed like a cat, the brightness of his smile is blinding. He’s wearing braces, and it makes him look so childish, yet there’s his adult self underneath the surface, waiting to break out. John loves him like his own, and at times like this, he can forget about the two dancers, lying on the bed with their hands twined.

But business is business and the ropes are tight in the flesh of his wrists, the scarf in his mouth has sucked up all of his saliva, making him cough dryly into it. John has faced death many times and this is certainly not an unknown situation, and as he stares right into the barrel of a pistol, he welcomes the fear – the fear that he’s almost indifferent to, or at least he was until now. He tries to swallow in vain, and briefly wonders why he’s suddenly afraid to die. No, not afraid. He regrets dying. But there’s the bang of a shot, and for a second he wonders whether it’s a universal experience that time seems to stop right before the end, whether everything goes silent but the sound of death. But the smoke is not coming from the pistol in front of his eyes, and the blood that splatters on his face is not his own. There’s a thud as a body falls to the ground, already losing its significance at that very moment, and John sees red hair and quivering lips, slender, awkward teenage fingers holding a gun, the metal twinkling in the semi-darkness. John groans a surprised, muffled name into the gag, gasping for air when Joe jumps over the corpse and frees John's mouth, unties his hands. The boy hugs him, his whole body trembling, his whimpers are barely audible under John's gentle, proud murmuring, breathing into his hair like when he was a baby.

It's late at night, and he's sitting in his bed, reading Dostoevskij when his door opens after a quiet knock. It's Joe, saying goodnight after his evening routine like he does every day, his red hair shining, and he looks so childish for a second as he’s peeking from behind the door that John chuckles. “Can I come in? I can't sleep,” the boy asks, and he’s already sitting on the bed, wearing boxers and a dinosaur t-shirt, cuddling against John’s side like he sometimes does, almost in a cat-like manner, and John hugs him close with an arm, patting his head. Maybe they are both getting too old for this, but it doesn’t matter. They quietly breathe each other in, as they always do, a precious, peaceful moment. But then Joe suddenly sits up, the movement so surprising that John looks up, meeting Joe's gaze, greener and darker than usual, the pupils blown wide in the dark; and the moment is tense, frozen in time. Joe’s eyes are full of questions he doesn’t dare to ask, and when John snaps out of it and asks what’s going on, Joe hastily presses a kiss on his cheek. “Nothing. Goodnight, Dad,” he says, his voice raspy as he hurries out, leaving his scent lingering there.

Joe is eighteen, and it’s his birthday, and John does everything in his power to make it worth remembering. Fireworks, pretty hostesses, extraordinary dinner with all of Joe's friends – the best ones from the best families, John has made sure. He gave Joe everything he needed: the best education, the best sports courses, the best teachers, the best food. He often forgets that Joe is not his own, it’s so easy to forget it because in a way they look similar. His people know, of course. Joe knows, John never denied that he’s adopted. He didn’t tell him the whole story, obviously, and in case Joe ever asks about his real family, John has answers prepared, even actors bribed. But Joe never asked him to help him find his relatives. He’s happy the way he is, he apparently found the mother figure he needed in his nanny, and that’s enough. John watches him jumping around inside a ring of friends, like a normal boy after having a bit too much to drink – no drugs, of course, John has strictly prohibited any kind of drug use around his son – and if he didn't know about it, John would never be able to tell that Joe’s skilled with guns. The boy needs to lead a normal life as much as possible, John has always wanted that for him, but Joe has killed a man before. It doesn't show on him too much. They both know it was justified, and John ignores the tiny voice inside his head telling him “it's a little too late to wish for a normal life for him, don't you think?”

Joe is eighteen, and he sneaks into John’s room still – a more seldom than before, but this is only normal, Joe is almost an adult, but still so young, very young. He slips into John’s room, a little bit tipsy maybe, and presses a kiss on John’s face as a thank you for the party, and John playfully ruffles his hair. But this time Joe doesn’t leave after saying goodnight. He could be a model, John thinks as he’s watching those pretty features, amazed at how he’s changed from a baby, became sharp and long and mature, his eyes deep and knowing, and Joe whispers to him something, he doesn't understand what, and Joe suddenly presses a kiss on John’s lips. It shocks him motionless, time has frozen again, and only when Joe’s slender fingers wander under his robe he’s alerted into motion. Joe’s wrist is thin in his hand, thin like John’s voice, “what are you doing?” Joe looks at him almost mockingly but there’s so much in his eyes that John can't decipher it all. “Are you afraid?” Joe asks, “why are you afraid? You’re not my father.” The pulse is rapid under John’s fingertips as he pushes the boy away. “Yes, I am,” he hears his voice rasping, “I raised you, of course I am your father.” Joe stares, the corners of his lips curling up, mocking and begging, and John doesn't know whether he's mad or shocked or aroused by the boy. He eventually wins their staring contest, and Joe pulls away, defeated, and escapes without a word, and it takes a few hours and a bunch of pills for John to fall asleep, the feel of Joe's slightly chapped lips lingering.

Joe is sweet and handsome, but he is not innocent, no, far from it. Joe has observed John and he knows everything about him, and he comes into his room at night again like nothing happened, when he thinks he managed to calm down his suspicion. John is surprised and not surprised, and he doesn’t say a word when Joe crawls into his bed, and this time, he slips under the covers. He's barely clad, and he puts his hot hand under John's shirt, slowly opening it, admiring his body with lips parted as if he’s never seen him before, in the pool, in the sauna, on the tanning bed. John’s watching Joe observing him, he feels tentative hands on his chest, running through the hair there, and Joe leans down suddenly, his ear on John’s heart, listening to it, hearing how fast it beats. John closes his eyes, unable to think this time, not wanting to, tired of pretending that nothing happened last time. There’s movement, and Joe’s thighs are straddling his hips, and Joe begins to rub against him, hot and hard through damp boxers, and John lets him use him, he listens to his panting getting faster and faster, listens to the crescendo of moans and whimpers, and he puts his hand firmly on Joe’s undulating hips, following the movements, inhaling the broken moan puffing on his lips. Joe's breathing slows down after, and only then John dares to open his eyes, meeting Joe's, glistening in the semi-darkness. Joe escapes again as if he was ashamed, and John wills his hard-on away, feeling used and slightly mad.

The days are silent, but there’s another night, and Joe is patiently waiting for him to go to bed again. And he stops at the end of the bed as he and John are watching each other, trying to figure out what the other has in his mind, or maybe trying not to think at all, not to talk at all. Joe is blushed and sweaty as he reaches for his boxers as if suddenly deciding, pushing them down and crawling towards John, butt-naked. Such bony shoulders, such sharp collarbones, long and lanky limbs, milky skin. John is mesmerized by him, and he lets Joe crawl to him, he lets his clever little hands undo his robe once again, he's watching Joe grin when he realizes John is naked underneath. The heat is radiating off Joe’s skin like from a star. "What are you getting me into, boy," John whispers, the first words in the past nights between them, slowly stroking that red hair. "What are  _ you  _ getting into, sweetheart..." Joe just grins and kisses him, for the first time for real, and John welcomes him with open arms and parted lips. Joe straddles him, this time naked skin meeting naked skin, and it’s so incredibly intense that John can feel both of them trembling against each other’s chests. Joe kisses him, a little careless with teeth and tongue now that he’s gathered courage, and there’s pleasure burning in the center of John’s body as Joe’s thrusting against him, their hips dancing together.

Joe is in his bed again in secret like every night, smelling delicious, sinful, tempting. It always goes the same way, without talking, without questions, just knowing gazes, the refusal of talking about it during the daytime. Joe is straddling him once again, he’s become bolder, his hands are in John’s hair, his whimpers are flowing more freely into John's ears, wordless but suggestive. Joe’s hips are grinding against his own, their hands around each other, and when they come, Joe collapses on top of him, and John hugs him, tapping the sharp bumps of the spine and the flat little butt, listening to their breaths synchronizing. Joe kisses him then, slower this time, pressing and letting his lips linger on John’s lips, and it’s so intimate, more intimate than everything they’ve ever done, more than changing diapers, more than the first serious talks, more than teaching how to kill, more than making love. John almost dozes off, the perfect weight of Joe on him is so calming, a feeling forgotten long ago. The cold pressure on his temple is almost unnoticeable at first, but he opens his eyes, looking at Joe’s reddened face, glistening eyes, and he immediately knows. 

“It was you who killed them, wasn’t it?” Joe asks, not louder than a breath, and John observes his face, the begging in his voice. Time stands still once again and it's familiar, like a déjà vu of a dream, and John wonders whether he’s seen this in a parallel universe, whether he’s dreamt about it, or just imagined it. Joe’s cheeks are flushed with the heat of lovemaking and sadness, the pain in John’s temple is sharp and cold as Joe’s trembling hand pushes the barrel deeper into his skin. ”I'm sorry, sweetheart,“ he hears his own whispered words, reaching up to Joe’s face, his thumb catching a single tear rolling down on a freckled cheek. Joe squeezes his eyes shut as he takes in a deep, shaky breath. “Why can’t you just deny it?” he asks quietly as if being disappointed that John doesn’t lie, and John’s awaiting the sharp pain and the darkness once again. There’s no regret. He doesn’t ask how Joe figured it out. “Do it,” he whispers, ignoring Joe’s light that came into his life unexpectedly; but after all, his light is but a candle in the wind. “I deserve it.” Joe's eyes flick open, and John’s plunging deep into the green. Joe’s hands are ridiculously shivering for a man who has been able to shoot since he was a kid, looking at him almost as if asking for his forgiveness for what he’s about to do. “Do you regret it?” John wonders what’s the correct answer to that question. “Yes. And no. I don’t regret having you. Ever.” Joe’s eyes are wide, conflicted, upset. The last thing he wants is Joe getting in trouble. He lifts his hand slowly, putting it on Joe’s, covering it gently. “You can make it look like a suicide if you hold it like this,” he murmurs, but Joe suddenly lets out a sob, and there’s the sudden warmth and wetness of the boy’s mouth on his, his whimper mixing with the click of the trigger, a bang echoing in his skull.

Joe is beautiful, and it’s a very flattering fact in a way, because Joe himself sometimes says they look similar. “My old man, my bad man,” Joe purrs as he cuddles against his side, “I love you way too much.” Joe is an adult now, he has John's heart in a fiery grip. Joe is pretty and handsome in a tuxedo and a bow tie, the fancy bar suiting him. He casually wraps his arms around John's waist, taking out his gun in the middle of a serious business meeting with a client to play with it, almost playfully threateningly. It certainly does make this meeting interesting, and John can see the lust throbbing in his client’s veins, and John holds his boy's waist tighter, smiling smugly. But Joe is also pretty in white swimming trunks and red hair at the pool, the thin, simple gold chain around his neck is glistening in the sunlight, and John is sipping his drink on a tanning bed, marveling at how far his little boy has come. Joe silly dances towards him and leans down, taking John’s glass and chugging up the drink before pressing his lips to John's, pouring the drink into his mouth. “You have such a sweet soul, Dad,” he whispers in John's ear, mocking him, and John can’t have enough of him rolling, rolling like a rolling stone. He smiles, gently pulling Joe towards him one more time by his gold chain, and Joe's smile is tender, his stubble is soft against John's lips that are now slightly dragged down by the sorrow of years.

When you’re a huge, respected leader of a mob – family, he always says –, there are things you must never let happen. Forcing your men to respect the boundaries is not so different from making a son learn the limits: you have to be strict and consistent. But some of his people don’t like what happened, they don't like that the adopted child of the enemy turned into the leader’s lover. “It’s unbecoming and tasteless,” Spikey says, he says many things, slurs, calling Joe a sugar baby and John even worse. “You've become soft, and you let him take over your life-” John has learned to control his emotions, and sometimes he wonders how far he has come from a shy child who hid behind his mother’s skirt whenever they asked him something. He manages to control them in front of others, and the most telling sign of his distress is the twitching of his lips, maybe a bit of a tension in his voice. Spikey has been his right-hand man for decades, and he probably has forgotten who is the boss there. John doesn't like the fear in those eyes, the sight of his right-hand man’s lips stretching around the barrel of a gun, but what has to be done has to be done. “If you ever use a slur against him again, I'm going to break your jaw into pieces,” he says, not even raising his voice. Spikey shakily nods, his eyes wide, and John releases his jaw. He'll have to watch out for him, and he’s not happy. But Joe is his protege, his son, his baby. He won't let anything bad happen to him.

“You are so beautiful, honey,” Joe says as he’s circling a finger on John's chest, playing with his chest hair and the gold chain around his neck, the pair of the chain that Joe is wearing. John chuckles, slowly stroking up and down Joe's back. “I think you’re talking about yourself.” “Why did you take me in, instead of killing me?” Joe asks, his eyes suddenly dark, but John has been expecting this question for a while. “I don't kill children. Never.” Joe smiles, taking the cigar from John’s lips, inhaling a puff, and giving it back. “You would be such a good family man,” Joe says, and his children’s faces flash up in front of John, his wife’s blonde hair in the wind, gone, gone a long time ago, their children in another continent, God knows where, his wife where he can’t follow. “You should be looking for someone to start a family with,” John says, caressing Joe's face with the back of his hand, he’s talking against himself, but Joe laughs dismissively. “Oh, no. Who else is gonna put up with me this way? I love you, John.” He always calls him Dad, which is very perverted, except in bed; in bed he's John, and no one else makes his name sound so sweet. John laughs, pulling him close. As long as Joe is his, all's right with the world.

“Honeybirds, it’s time to split.” They both jump at the opening of the door, noticing two barrels pointing at them. “Our noble family needs proper leadership.” Situations like this are a part of John’s life, but this didn't really matter until now. No, not until now, not until Joe’s become involved too. Joe has gone pale, and he quickly reaches under the pillow for a gun, only to get stopped by a warning shot into his hand, and his pained yell makes John's hair stand on end, and he pushes Joe behind his back. “I’m gonna drive a whole set of bullets through both of you if I have to,” comes the threat, the gun gesturing towards Joe. “Move.” “No, please, don't hurt him, I'd die without him, please,” Joe begs as he twists himself in front of John to shield him. “Then die first,” Spikey says, and there’s a shot, deafening, blood drops on the sheets, and Joe falls backward in slow motion, like a feather falling onto the surface of a calm lake, his head ending up resting on John's thigh, his expression becoming serene, peaceful at the end of everything. How odd it is that John saw him sleeping at first, and now he sees him sleeping again, for the last time. John doesn’t yell, he doesn't shout out his unbearable agony for the world to hear, no. If his memory is correct, there’s exactly one more bullet left. There’s a commanding voice in the background like a white noise, but it's so insignificant that John doesn't even hear it. He lifts the gun that’s still in Joe's hand to his temple and shoots.

Time indeed slows down before death. There are so many parallel universes that can be peaked into, dividing through decisions, intertwining through the limits of this dimension. Joe’s hair is red and he’s beautiful, like a rose that doesn't belong into a neglected, disheveled garden that was John’s life; but Joe cries for him, his tears dropping onto John's cheek, warm and salty before it all stands still.

**Author's Note:**

> Please check out [this marvelous moodboard](https://deakys-chesthair.tumblr.com/post/622000494892761088/blackacidapple-as-the-head-of-an-italian) that [blackacidapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackacidapple) made for this fic! You're the best!


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